


AN INCLINATION

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I never took you for someone who had an inclination to touch,” Finch says.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	AN INCLINATION

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A metric ton of thanks to [](http://no-detective.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://no-detective.livejournal.com/)**no_detective** who made this SO much better (all mistakes are mine), and she continued to love and encourage me post-beta when I sat on it for _months_. Give this girl a raise!

Finch has clearly been blessed with all the patience that Reese lacks, well-hidden within his tightly wound-up personality. He sits rigidly in the hotel desk chair, fiddling one-handed with his laptop keyboard, his back facing Reese, as if he is completely alone.

Reese, on the other hand, has already worn a groove in the cheap but durable carpet and has twitched the window curtains aside five times to look out at the brick wall opposite.

Their latest Number is scheduled to arrive in the early morning hours. The room he has booked for himself is next door to the one in which they’ve set themselves up to wait and watch. Finch has streamlined his cameras and listening devices. Now, all they have to do is wait. And wait.

Finch doesn’t move, and eventually it gets on Reese’s nerves. Motivated by some sort of sadistic streak, he pauses mid-pace and runs his fingers through the short hair on the back of Finch’s head. Finch shivers.

“Mr. Reese, may I ask what you are doing?”

“I don’t like sitting around doing nothing. You know that.”

“Very well. But antagonizing me isn’t going to make the time pass any faster.”

Reese knows that isn’t true, at least not for him. He brushes Finch’s hair again and this time, Finch shuffles around in his chair. He looks at Reese with that inscrutable look he has -- the one that gives less than nothing away. Reese feels an itch in his fingers. The less access Finch gives him, the more he wants to provoke him.

“I never took you for someone who had an inclination to touch,” Finch says.

“Is that a challenge?” Reese _isn’t_ a touchy person, but the idea that it bothers Finch so much is very interesting.

“If you like,” Finch says, and turns around again, tapping the keyboard absently. “Still not picking our man up anywhere. He’s just slightly off the radar and that’s troublesome.”

“Uh huh,” Reese agrees, because he likes trouble and Finch gives him plenty. He places the fingers of one hand gently on the back of Finch’s neck.

“Mr. Reese.” Finch sighs as if he’s a weary parent with a recalcitrant child. “Your games will only distract from the matter at hand. Lives may be at stake.”

“Lives are always at stake,” Reese replies. He opens his hand and curls it around the back of Finch’s neck. It’s warm there, and the starchy collar isn’t so tight that Reese can’t slip his hand inside. “And you did throw down a challenge.”

“But this is not the kind of challenge that is your specialty. Stick to what you know.” The curl of Finch’s lips turns into a slant.

“I’m always looking to expand my repertoire.” Reese is suddenly aware that he’s slipped into flirtation, something he does with ease on any given day, for any reason, usually to get information or smooth the way for an infiltration, and also, oh-so-subtly _with Finch_. Usually it’s not face-to-face. He’s grown to like their banter, the way they murmur into each other’s ears while they’re miles apart.

He bends at the waist, leaning in towards Finch and places his lips at the pulse point. Finch, true to form, jerks away, raising a hand to stop him. Finch doesn’t turn around and push him, though; he won’t go so far as to touch him back. Interesting. How Finch reacts to this particular investigation ought to give Reese plenty of clues about the man. He thinks about all this, but around the edges of his mind there is a slight fog of something else. He feels affection. And attraction. He turns the two around in his mind, allows them to creep in and settle. It’s been a while since he’s done something like this. Forever since he’s done it with someone he has a vested interest in.

“You don’t want to do this,” Finch says sharply. “I recommend you stop and focus.”

Reese notes that he says _you_ , and confirms it by calibrating the hitch in Finch’s breath, the shiver that results in goosebumps along his neck. Finch wants this.

Reese is focused, now. He’s fascinated by the line of Finch’s neck and pulls at the collar, revealing more skin. He kisses the spot again, then bites. Finch smells like vintage books and hand sanitizer.

Finch turns around and faces him, hands settled primly on his knees. “John. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” Reese says. Their faces are mere inches apart, but Finch doesn’t flinch. There’s a tiny red mark where he’s been nipped, and Reese rubs it with his thumb. If Finch makes him stop now, the frustration and the boredom and the need to keep moving, never resting... it will all pile up again.

“Where do you see this going, Mr. Reese?” Finch stands up, dislodging Reese’s hand. “Do you see yourself dominating me, entrapping me? Do you think you’ll find out what you want to know? Do you think I’ll give something away?”

“I’m not sure.”

I can assure you that won’t happen. I also won’t let your childish sexual manipulations ruin this partnership, and put more lives at risk. If you’re feeling an itch, I suggest you find an alternative way to scratch it so we can get back to work.”

Reese stands with his hands at his sides. Finch, before him, is looking up in that stubborn way he has, cold and unyielding. Reese wants him. It’s unfathomable that he’d be willing to risk so much but he is. He wants Finch to make him feel. He wants to see _Finch_ feel. He’s not sure which he wants more.

“No,” he says. “I need _you_ to fuck me.” He takes off his suit jacket and reaches up to unbutton his shirt, holding Finch’s eyes as he does so. Finch doesn’t move, still like a statue, even when Reese reaches down to his belt and strips it off in one fluid movement. He doesn’t stop until he is completely naked, and he’s grateful that Finch doesn’t stop him either.

Reese is aware that he’s considered beautiful. He wants Finch to be aware too, and so he stands and waits it out, patiently, trying to be as naked as he can be, in every sense of the word. Finally Finch accepts what is being offered and takes a good, long look. He is probably cataloging all of Reese’s scars, matching them with firefights on file, tortures and interrogations known and unknown. Only the sound of a swallow from Finch’s throat means that he’s suddenly stopped seeing the file and started seeing the man. The muscled body, the sections of skin that are smooth, the cock full but not yet erect, the strong shoulders and tight torso. Reese resists the tension that wants to set in over the doubts he has that this will work, or that this is even a smart thing to do. It may be stupid, but he’s a risk-taker; that’s how he wins.

Finch finally meets his eyes. “If we proceed, you do what I say, and only what I say. You follow my instructions.”

“Of course.” Reese resists the urge to add, _don’t I always?_

“I’ll need to call room service. In the meanwhile, lie on the bed, face down.” Reese does as he’s told and entices himself to relax. Finch takes the phone into the bathroom. His voice doesn’t waver as he requests condoms, lube, extra towels. So that’s how it will be.

Finch stays in the bathroom until there is a knock on the door. Once the door clicks shut, Reese lets his anticipation rise, continuing to monitor the sounds Finch is making. Finch goes over to the laptop and after a few taps, he shuts the lid. Then he turns off all the lights. That shouldn’t have been such a surprise, but it is. Finch won’t want Reese seeing his injured leg, for one. Reese could learn a lot from that. But it also means Reese can’t see his face, and won’t be able to learn from what he sees there either.

The first touch comes out of nowhere and catches Reese off-guard. For someone with his skills, this is quite the achievement, but then again, Reese hadn’t expected to be lying with his face pressed into a mattress tonight. Finch’s hand is on his shoulder, his thumb pressing into Reese’s shoulder blade. There’s a pause that lasts so long Reese lifts his head and says into the darkness, “Finch?”

“You were expecting someone else?”

“Possibly. But I’m glad it’s you.”

Finch sighs, and Reese flinches, wondering momentarily if he’s pressuring Finch into something he really does not want. That thought flies out the window when Finch removes his hand and Reese hears him undressing, his clothes falling to the floor. Fastidious Finch would have normally folded them, Reese is certain. That he does not pause to do this suggests that he is aroused or at least unfocused. The bed dips with his weight and the hand is back on Reese’s shoulder.

“This is what you want, then?” Finch asks.

“If you let me get up, I’ll show you how much I --”

“Don’t,” Finch interrupts. “Stay where you are. No more conversation from here on out.”

Reese hasn’t had a chance to ask if this is what Finch wants too, but he obediently says nothing even though he’s inclined to dirty talk at the moment. He hopes his submissiveness will encourage Finch to feel more certain about this thing they’re about to do.

Finch straddles him and Reese takes note of the way Finch’s injured leg feels against his own. He can feel rough scar tissue, can feel the thinness of the leg where muscle has atrophied. Finch’s hip joints crack too, but Reese isn’t young enough to claim that doesn’t happen to him on a regular basis. Finch’s hands stroke down his back to his ass and Reese doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or anxious that they’re going to get right to business. His cock has gone completely hard, and it’s definitely better to get going before one of them starts to have serious regrets.

Except Finch doesn’t get right to business. He massages Reese’s shoulders, presses his thumbs along his spine. Reese resists the urge to protest that if he’d wanted a massage he’d have rung the concierge. He allows it to happen, however, and finds that if anything, Finch has talented hands. He relaxes in the dark, lets his eyes unfocus.

Finch opens the lube and warms it between his hands before spreading Reese open and stroking a thumb along his perineum. Reese shivers and twists under Finch’s delicate hands. Finch continues, slowly, taking his time, opening Reese up with his fingers, pressing in all the right places. _He’s done this before._ Reese is going to be incoherent with pleasure in a very short time and this wasn’t exactly what he’d signed up for. He tenses as his control slips away.

“Make it hurt,” Reese whispers. “Please.” Pain he can take, not this. Pain he _wants_.

“No,” Finch says. “No, John.”

At the sound of his name, Reese surfaces like he’s kicking his way out of a burning car. Harold _wants_ to give him pleasure. He seizes eagerly on the idea. He likes things that actually frighten him. He can handle a brutal firefight, he has been kicked in the face more times than he can count, tortured to the brink of madness, but to lie still and let Harold fuck him senseless -- and actually let himself enjoy it -- is new.

He’s not used to feeling this helpless. He is out of his depth. By the time Harold is sliding inside him, he’s all but boneless, trying to hold himself still out of sheer stubbornness, forcing himself to let go of everything that keeps him going, keeps him crawling through life giving and receiving pain. Harold bottoms out and holds himself there, breathing heavily, and Reese knows he’s having trouble holding back. Reese wants to make him completely lose it, so he bucks his hips slightly, just enough to send the message that he’s a giving person, too.

Harold sets up a rhythm of slow, stuttering strokes, and his head falls forward to Reese’s back. Reese can feel his damp hair, the press of his forehead and the heat of his breath. He pushes back against the thrusts, ignoring the earlier warning to wait for instructions. He reaches down to grab his cock which is straining, trapped beneath him. His brain, normally functioning at a high level, goes offline. All its cataloging, tracking, triple-checking just shuts down, goes blank, and there’s a pleasant whiteout that John hasn’t experienced in a while. It’s happening to Harold, too, and as Reese spills over his hand, he can feel Harold losing control, his grip slipping and his breath coming in audible gasps almost like words.

“John.”

Reese hears everything he wants to hear in that one exhalation. He twists his body around as Harold is coming inside him and holds the back of Harold’s head so he can kiss him. Harold has given up, he lets the kiss happen, lets everything happen and Reese can feel every hard shake of his body. He doesn’t stop kissing him, just continues to plunder Harold’s mouth. He knows this is too far, too much, but he can’t help it. He wants Harold, Harold wants him. It should be simple, but it’s not.

“Harold,” Reese finally breaks the kiss so that Harold can climb off him and take care of practical matters. He can’t see very well in the dark, so he lies back and stares at the black. A light clicks on, and to his disappointment, Harold has put his pants on and is reaching for his shirt.

“Mr. Reese, I suggest you get dressed so we’re not caught with our pants down, so to speak.”

“Funny, Finch, very funny.” He slips into the bathroom and cleans himself up and gets dressed. He looks into the mirror and sees the same man, but if he’s not mistaken, there’s a glint in his eyes, as if he’s threatening to smile. _Funny_.

When he returns to the room, Finch is typing away, scowling at the computer. “He’s arrived, and is in the room next door. I – I didn’t hear the alarm I set.”

Reese basks in the obvious lie. He’ll figure out what that cost Finch later. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s unpacking. Not to be euphemistic, but he’s unpacking a rather large gun. Assassin, I should think. This isn’t the kind of gun one uses for self-defense.”

“You should see the kinds of guns I pack for self-defense,” Reese says. “Not to be euphemistic.” He’s glad they’re bantering and that Finch isn’t curling up into a ball or shutting him out. Maybe this could happen again. Does he want it to? He does.

“He’s on the move. Follow him and I’ll head back so we can monitor him; with any luck it will become obvious who he’s been hired to kill.”

Reese is ready to move and to move very fast. He got a good look at the guy, his gun and the set of his jaw, which Reese hopes to crack very soon. But before he goes...

“Harold.” Reese leans over, puts both hands on Harold’s face and kisses him. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, John.”

Reese is out the door, trying very hard not to smile.


End file.
